Patience
by rilesw
Summary: Sherlock is dead, but life goes on... Or what passes for it. Months later, it's John who has a case to solve. This story is meant to take place between The Reichenbach Fall and The Empty Hearse.


1

John Watson changed his mind, just as the cabbie was setting his hands to turn onto the final street.

"Stop." The emotion that unsettled his usually steady and stoic voice jarred him. The words were… too familiar. "Don't. I'm sorry. Take me to…" and, steeling himself, gave the man his new address. His new apartment. Some soldiers come home, and some die on the battlefield. But when compatriots die and soldiers return, a flat can be quiet and still. A landlady can be a reminder he thought he was prepared to endure, but… at the last moment, as the settings became more familiar, the memories blended. One man's sweeping coat turned a corner, and it was just like the first night, they'd chased a cab nearly across London. That thought shifted too seamlessly into another coat, caught in the wind as he fell—

And John couldn't. He couldn't face Mrs. Hudson. Or Baker Street. Or the little knife marks in the mantelpiece, where they always stuck the cases Sherlock couldn't answer straight away. It was possible, away from all that, to think of something, anything else. He was afraid that if he set foot inside, he'd be right back in the moment—

 _"No. Don't."_ But he hadn't listened.

John forced a breath.

It took just over fifteen minutes to arrive at the new apartment. He'd found it about a month ago, when he finally couldn't bring himself to stay at Baker Street any longer. He was beginning to feel like he did before he'd met Sherlock, when everything was static. He'd even begun to feel that old pain in his leg, creeping back.

He opened the letterbox outside his door, a habit he consciously put on himself to feel like things were different. Mrs. Hudson used to bring their mail up. Even though she was their landlady, she was also a rather good housekeeper. He hadn't expected to be back so early. The visit to Baker Street was something he'd decided on that morning. Now, what should he do?

He began going through the mail, a small handful. Each activity for the last four months was one at a time. He didn't think many steps forward. It was, first I'll do this, and then after I'll think about what's next. In fact, the decision to visit their old flat was the first time he'd thought more than one step ahead in… maybe since it happened.

One letter, a paycheck from surgery. He stuck the check in his wallet, unceremoniously. Another bit of mail, a take out menu from a Chinese restaurant. _They'd gone there, more than once, while out on an investigation. Sherlock had grinned and said aloud, "And then the husband, found dead, blood on his fingers. But not his own. Brilliant. Oh, John, this case."_

 _"You think the wife had something to do with it?"_

 _"Don't be stupid. His love affairs happened years ago. Why would she still care?"_

John grimaced, just as he had then. Sherlock could figure things out so quickly, it was incredible. But he could also be so insensitive. So unaware of the fact that other people were eating around them, and were not as agreeable on murder being interesting over pad thai.

 _"Sherlock."_

 _"What?" He'd said, genuinely confused. "Not good?"_

 _"A bit."_

Sherlock had, defensively like a child, affixed his mouth into a frown. John couldn't help it: he quietly laughed to himself. That was just like Sherlock. Like a child. He could single handedly run Scotland Yard, but couldn't finesse his way in basic human conversation.

The last letter was unmarked. This fact came upon him by surprise; he'd had it in his hands as he thought back on moments with his companion he hadn't even allowed himself to revisit before now. John turned the letter over. Opened it gently.

The paper inside was addressed to him. _To Dr. John_ , it read. The way it addressed him was unusual enough; his name was either Dr. Watson professionally, or Dr. John H. Watson, or just John. But in addition to the odd _Dr. John_ was the body of the letter. The sentences were complete, but not logical. There was talk of someone — dead — who was first _not_ tall, then something about crime _.._. Like the rambling of a madman. His eyes passed over the rest of the letter, skipping to the sender at the bottom.

 _Patience_ _Smith_

Is what it said. Patience. A woman's name, most likely. As his mind turned over the information, the familial sensation of adrenaline steadied his hands. Who was she? And what on Earth was she trying to communicate, and why to John? Sure, his blog was still online, his name still associated with crime solving, but it was common knowledge at this point that not only was Sherlock Holmes, the renowned, brilliant "Hat Detective"… dead… but he was a fr—

 _I can't even bring myself to say it. Even still_ , John thought, smiling bitterly to himself. If he had the headspace, he would admit that the world believed a lie. They thought Sherlock was a fraud. But John would never believe it, could hardly even think it. He'd just begun to say _dead_. His… his _friend_ was dead.

Now solemn and in need of a distraction of absolutely any kind, John set the strange letter back on the barren kitchen table. One of the few pieces of furniture he had set up. He ignored the boxes stacked in the corner, as he made his way to his room.

2

 _Eight months later_

The first time Mary Morstan held John's arm, was the first time he truly felt like his life was moving again. They were watching a film, a rendition of _Dracula_ at her house. She'd suggested the movie; he'd suggested her place. Mary was different than the string of women he dated since returning from Afghanistan. And he wasn't even sure how. Maybe it was how intense even her softest of smiles could seem. They began dating only a few months ago, but already the pairing felt natural.

Perhaps sensing his reverie, Mary glanced up at him and with a tender look eased John's mind. They sat like that, together on her polyester couch, watching a master killer at work.

"You ever think they get bloodsick?" Mary wondered aloud in that charming, wanton way she had.

"How does a vampire get bloodsick?"

"Slowly, then all at once."

John looked at her, somewhat incredulously.

"Sorry," she said and laughed. "Bit bad, at this hour." She glanced at the clock on the wall, which read just after 11:15.

"Huh," John murmured. Noticing him, Mary craned her head. John looked at her, choosing in the moment to revisit the thought that came upon him so suddenly. "Back in the fusiliers. We used to get to bed at 23 hundred hours. I don't…" he laughed, as if to himself. "So insignificant. I don't know why I thought of that."

"Sometimes things are like that," Mary replied, her fingers twirling the threads of a throw blanket. "Little things remind you of important things." She sat up then, tucking her feet under herself and turning to face him. "Will you tell me? What was he like?"

"You mean—"

"It." She nodded. Rather too emphatically. "I mean, it."

"Because, _he_ would imply—"

"You know exactly."

"Right."

Mary broke formation then, again, as she had with her joke. "Sorry," she said, with a soft, slightly self-deprecating laugh.

"No, it's… it's fine." John felt more uncertain with each word what it was that he was referring to. He decided that, it was fine that Mary was curious. If nothing else, in fact, was fine. Smiling tightly, he dispelled a modicum of the tension for himself. And he made up his mind in that moment that he should tell her about him. He hadn't… had hardly even mentioned his name. But when Sherlock did come up… when a memory pressed itself… the weight of his name coming out of John always gave Mary pause. It was perhaps for this reason, which was for her this mystery, and maybe even because of her growing affection for John, that her curiosity was so lit about the man who was once so essential in her boyfriend's life. Whose absence left him battered more than war.

"Shall I make us some tea?" She asked.

John acquiesced. When she returned, she handed him a mug.

"Want to play a game?"

When he asked her what she had in mind — still thinking about how to talk about Sherlock — she brightened.

"Cluedo?" And John, of course, had to laugh out loud.

3

[Disclaimer: I haven't actually played Clue / Cluedo. It's awful of me, I know.]

"He was… completely… complete."

Mary could not hold back the threadiest of her consternation. But when John laughed a bit at his phrasing, she allowed herself too.

"Your move."

"Course," Mary replied.

She examined the board, which at this point had both their pieces set, with no possibilities for the potential setting, weapon, or murderer eliminated.

 _"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock. That's why."_

 _"It's the only solution that makes sense."_

Sherlock had been impossible to play with; the way he saw the clues and made deductions had singular, tunnel-like importance, and if the facts did not fit they would be unceremoniously jettisoned from his mind. That was the first and last time they played Cluedo together. The board remained impaled against the wall for weeks.

John had thrown up his hands then, but now the laugh that escaped him cut the tension.

"He was a man who invented his own job. That was the kind of person he was."

"And who were you?" Mary asked, the corners of her bright, keen eyes smiling with interest.

He shook his head. "He once told me he was married to his work. In that case, I was the biographer. Not his. His spouse's biographer. Sherlock Holmes never talked about his childhood. Everything surrounding him was so secretive, I thought his brother was some kind of…" he laughed derisively at himself, "some kind of super villain." Mary gasped and laughed. He joined her. "For about three hours. I couldn't imagine what kind of childhood would create someone like him. I blogged, he solved the crimes."

"Care to share?" She grinned mischievously. "That _the_ blog the world's talking about?"

"Don't." John regretted it immediately, but he also couldn't help it— He drew in the knee that had been inclined in a growing attachment way towards her. "I'm sorry. It's just… it's ancient history. I shouldn't even be talking about all this."

"Ooh, John… it's okay, really. Though… whenever you do feel like talking… I'll have you know I'm a history enthusiast." She held her cards up to her face. "You know the trick to winning at this game, Dr. Watson?"

"What's that… Ms. Morstan?"

"It's all about reading a bluff."

"Is that right?" Asked John, setting his hand over his own cards.

"Of course it depends on how clever your opponent is. If they don't expect a bluff. Because they trust you."

"Ahh… doesn't seem very clever to tell your opponent that you're bluffing."

"Am I?"

They watched each other.

4

Mary and John were walking in a park when they were happened upon by another ghost from John's past: Greg Lestrade.

A voice — not the detective inspector's — occurred to John. _"Giles?"_ It said. He shook the memory off. But his resistance was getting weaker — it was less a shove, and more a side-step.

"I'll be damned," said Lestrade, his countenance cheerful, but in their mutual recognition there was also a quiet melancholy that neither addressed, but that each knew occurred to the other, and by their shifting glances they acknowledged it. Lestrade set his hands in his pockets and chose to beam at the woman beside his old acquaintance. "Greg," he said by way of introduction.

Mary looked pointedly at John, her cheeks like apples as she smiled.

"Sorry," John said. "This is Mary. My girlfriend. Mary, this is Greg Lestrade. He's… well, he's a detective with Scotland Yard."

"Pleased to meet you," Mary returned, taking Lestrade's warm hand. "I haven't met many people from John's side of the world."

"You would't, would you?"

Mary furrowed her brow. "What's that?"

Lestrade waved off his comment almost immediately, apologizing and saying it was nothing. But Mary, while John ducked his head and smiled somewhere to his left, knew what he meant. John was private. Isolated, even. She suspected, upon meeting the detective inspector that her new lover was once not so insular. There was one thing that could have changed him so much. Lestrade mentioned his wife, asked after John, how he was, how was work going. John was polite. And, just when the doctor was beginning to smile just a little too tightly, Mary touched his arm.

The three of them spoke for a little longer, but soon began to look off in other directions. John was about to say something permitting him to step away, when Lestrade broke the surface level dialogue.

"Say…" he said, lowering his voice, almost conspiratorialy. "You haven't… heard anything?"

They leveled eyes.

"Nothing," was John's flat reply. Lestrade, for a reason unknown to John, continued looking at him. As if he'd heard the answer, believed it even, but wished there was something else John had to say. John swallowed. _Sherlock used to be so cavalier with so many of the cases Lestrade brought. He once turned him away twice over a single case. But he couldn't resist Lestrade's pleas for long. He liked the attention. He liked that he was the only one who could help_.

The breath caught in John's throat and, feeling sorry for Lestrade — though if it could be called pity, it was for them both — he said again, more unguarded, "Nothing."

The detective inspector took a moment, then nodded. "Course. That's… all in the past, then." What went unsaid between them was that they both secretly wished Sherlock Holmes was as remarkable in death as he has been in life — that he could cheat in either. But time had been quiet. Even for John, who Lestrade thought Sherlock might, if there was in fact any chance, at all… And all John had was the flat Mrs. Hudson still kept empty and yet so full, a blog he hadn't touched in months, and… John thought suddenly… wasn't there something else? He furrowed his brow.

Lestrade said he'd be on his way, though not before mentioning a case. " _He_ would have wanted you to know," was the justification with a desperate sort of smirk. "Some nonsense anonymous 'tip'. We're sure it had something to do with a double homicide case, that had gone cold about last winter. Course, we were all wrapped up in… well, anyway, we think they're related but we can't figure out how."

John smiled. "You give yourself too little credit."

"What was the tip?" asked Mary, whose eyes were bright and keen.

"Um…" Lestrade hesitated, fumbled with his notepad. He seemed unsure at first if he should include her in private police matters. John was a different story of course. But within the moment he decided Sherlock was just one in a series of exceptions he'd make. So he began to quote: "'Legacy pale the white horse. Three at the races. Murder of the pair.'"

"Ha… sounds like the kind of riddle we used to get," mused John. Again, a memory teased him. Something half-remembered. He felt a phantom sensation of paper against his fingers.

"Legacy… horse?" Mary's voice rose. "Is that a race horse?"

"We did look into the horse races around that time. But there wasn't a connection beside that the two victims had been there the week before. But they also worked together."

"It's a skip code." The men paused their respective trains of thought and looked at her. "Legacy horse, three races, murder pair. Maybe there was a horse they were fighting over, a horse that was from a certain breeding line."

It was some moments before Lestrade remembered he was in a park, and not at his desk reviewing information. When he did, he nodded. "Yes… could be. I'll have to pop by the station. Good to meet you… Mary, was it?"

"Mary," she replied, smiling confidently.

"John," Lestrade finished by way of saying goodbye. But John hardly heard him at all. The half memory that had been coiling through his mind, that had in fact been there, lingering for not just this conversation, but for the past eight months, drew into focus. His girlfriend gazed at him inquisitively, said his name softly.

But John could not bring himself to tell her what was this quiet resigned acceptance, burning now into a hope he restrained only on the fear of having it crushed anew. But it sparked a singular goal in John Watson, that he would have to keep brimming below the rim until he could see Mary off, giving her a swift kiss:

 _See the letter_.

5

The keys slipped from his hand. He swore to himself, as he accidentally kicked them with his feet into the dirt abutting the steps.

 _Sherlock had said, "It's a trick."_

He scooped up the keys. Plunged the right one into the keyhole.

 _"Just a magic trick."_

He heard that voice, that stubbornly hopeful voice, crying out that he was right; right all along.

Open, flew the box full of things that had reminded John of those two years he spent with his friend and in the few months after. In his frenzied state, he tore the letter's envelope at its side.

 _To Dr. John,_

It read. It was strange then, and strange now. And what was wrong with him, with his nerves? At his most stressed, he always managed composure. This was different. His hands shook.

 _He was not tall, quite dead. Summer makes discretion lurid, but is grave. It's essential for crime._

And then, the name. The name of a woman he never met:

 _Patience Smith_

It had to be from him, somehow. It made too much sense for it to be otherwise. And yet until he could decode it, until it crystalized into the message he needed to have… Anxiously, he scratched at his head. _This isn't the battlefield_ , he realized. He was trembling and clumsy because this was hope.

He tried the first and last word, like Mary did with the anonymous tip.

 _He dead. Summer grave. It's crime._

Nonsense.

What else could be a skip code? The first and second words?

 _He was. Summer makes…_

No.

He began to get despondent. There were countless possibilities, even in so short a message. And even if he managed to find a message, what chance was there it was real, and not just a coincidental arrangement of words he specifically chose? And his eyes were starting to sting. He had let himself, for this fleeting moment, believe again. He put so much into building a wall against this very belief, so that he could not be disappointed. He could not be hurt. The future would be different, but he could learn to live with it. Now he'd allowed the image of Sherlock Holmes into his present, into his future, he didn't know if he could shut it out again.

Then, just when the letter started to sag in his weariness, a single word jumped. " _John_." _"To Dr. John."_ A strange way to address him. Or an intentional clue. And he was breathing slowly. Methodically. He felt as if his friend were walking into the room, and standing behind him.

He got out a pad of paper. Wrote each word in the pattern he guessed, based on where that singular word fell. And when he had finished, this is what it read:

 _John_

 _Not dead_

 _Discretion is essential_

 _Patience_

"You cock," is what escaped John, and the next was a tearful laugh. He ran his fingers over the letter, as if for the first time. He turned towards the door. Mary stood there. Her jacket was still primly done, her hands clasped over each other.

"I'm sorry," she began. "Your door was open." John said nothing at first. Just looked at her, as unguarded as he ever was. He made no effort to restrain the smile that lit his face. And slowly, Mary made her way to him. Sat at his side, where she could see the box torn open, a discarded envelope, and that single letter held like treasure in his hands.

"Will you tell me, John?" she asked. "Did you love him?"

John lowered his head. A wan smile passed over his face. Then, he looked at Mary, took her hand with the letter still clasped in the other.

"I still do."

The embrace Mary gave him then, would keep him steady for some time.


End file.
